


Flawless

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-03-10 02:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3273842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Legolas returns home with a few tokens of Erebor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flawless

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Drabble for anon’s “Bard (or Thorin) marking up Thranduil, or Legolas? I just want that flawless Elven skin visibly peppered with love bits and beard burn.” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25317749#t25317749).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

For the first time in many years, Legolas employs the same creeping techniques in the halls of his home as he does in the forest. He sticks to the shadows, cast long in the night between the high, starlit windows, and he walks behind columns wherever he can. His footsteps are light, his gate careful. He made it past the guards at the front, but anyone he passes now, highborn or lowborn alike, would surely report to his father, and that’s a conversation Legolas plans to avoid as long as he possibly can. 

He’s just at his chambers, his fingers lifting to the silver handle, when he hears the brush of robes behind him. He turns, but not in time to hide, and his father appears before him, regal and fresh as day. Legolas instinctively takes a step back, into the darkness between his doors and the nearest pillar, but Thranduil comes so close that Legolas knows it won’t help. Thranduil stops just at the end of Legolas’ toes, and Legolas lowers his eyes. He wants to turn away, but he can’t decide which side of him would be worse to show. His father reaches out to cup his chin, long fingers curling around his jaw, and he’s forced to look up and into his father’s eyes.

They search him. Legolas tries to be impassive and tell nothing, but he knows he’s failed. Absently, Thranduil’s thumb brushes along his chin, and Legolas can’t help but wince—the bruise there is deep. He knows he’s a mess of marks, mostly the grooves of teeth. He can only hope his scalp isn’t as pink as when he left, raw from having his hair so fiercely pulled. He had red spots, more sore skin, from where his lover’s coarse beard scratched across him, but he hopes that that too has faded. 

He can tell from the anger that swarms in Thranduil’s eyes that it’s no use: he’s a mess. His once faultless skin is marred in so many places, and even his lips feel swollen, the bottom one split from being bitten. He hangs his head, taking his father’s hand with him, more to avoid his father’s gaze than for any real shame. Thranduil hisses thinly, “ _Oakenshield._ ” 

Legolas doesn’t bother nodding. The dry, rebellious side of him has the urge to snarl that at least he chose royalty, like his father wanted. But he isn’t so foolish. He stays silent while his father turns his face from side to side, inspecting all the damage. It must be obvious that they slither down his neck and disappear beneath his clothes. Legolas is marked _everywhere_ , branded with Thorin’s claim. His only solace is that each one will be a physical reminder of blissful memories. Even as Thranduil watches him, Legolas can’t help but think of the way it felt to be crushed under the king of the mountain, stripped bare and taken roughly in large piles of gold, told sick things like how much of an honour it is to be a dwarf king’s concubine, but of course how much more Legolas is to him than that: Legolas is Thorin’s greatest treasure, his most beautiful jewel. The whisper of Thorin’s deep growl in his ear still makes Legolas shiver in pleasure, and it takes everything he has to jerk himself back to the present. The last thing he needs right now is to be aroused in front of his father, and Thorin Oakenshield is _very_ arousing. 

There’s a brief moment, after Thranduil’s hand has slithered away, that Legolas is sure his father will slap him. It’s never been done, but then, he’s never gone against his father so severely. What an irony it would be, if he were to be punished for bearing Thorin’s marks by way of a mark from his own father. Perhaps he would go straight back to Thorin to show off his latest bruise, and it would earn him the comfort he’s never received in Mirkwood, along with more wild, brutal sex. 

But Thranduil merely says, toneless with a subtle edge of fury, “You will make yourself scarce from sight until they have healed.” 

Legolas only nods, his hair slipping over his shoulders. His father lingers a minute longer, and Legolas wonders how much of their already strained bond he’s chiseled away. It was worth it, he knows, to feel Thorin’s strong hands on his body, but that makes this moment no less difficult. 

Finally, Thranduil turns to leave. He sweeps down the hall, robes drifting elegantly along behind him, crown glistening in the moonlight. And Legolas is left standing there, feeling vaguely _dirty._

He slips into his room and strips away his clothes. He watches every new patch of skin he reveals in the mirror, gingerly touching each mark with trembling fingertips. They bring him the smell of Thorin’s musk, the taste of Thorin’s tongue, the sound of Thorin’s lurid moans, the feel of Thorin’s great beard burning down his chest, and the sight of Thorin sitting handsomely above him, awash in lust and a large, greedy smirk. 

By the time Legolas turns away from the mirror, he already knows that he’ll return to Erebor, as soon as the first symbols of Thorin’s possession have ebbed away and need replacing.


End file.
